


Better Than Fiction

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Fun in the mind palace, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Masturbation, Not just mind palace, Pining Sherlock, Set between s1 and s2, Sherlock has a good imagination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>...he opens his eyes, but instead of seeing John he is staring at his bedroom ceiling, the pale plaster a startling contrast from the scene in his head. It had felt so real. He can only imagine what the feel of John’s lips would be like, his taste. But luckily for him, he thinks with a smirk, he’s always had a brilliant imagination.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Happierstill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happierstill/gifts).



> This was all spawned by a prompt given to me by the lovely Happierstill who wanted to see Sherlock imagining John naked in his mind palace. Hope this delivered, my friend :)

The flat is too quiet. One would think that Sherlock Holmes would be used to it since he had lived alone for so long, but the truth is that since meeting John Watson, he realized how pleasant another’s company could be. Before John, Sherlock didn’t really want or need other people. Their constant chatter was a drone on his senses when all he needed was peace to be able to concentrate, their inane interests a bore. Even Mrs. Hudson, who was like a second mother to him, he could only take in small doses.

So it came as a complete surprise when Sherlock found himself not only enjoying but craving John’s company. The Bond night John had staged remains one of the best nights he can remember spending in a very long time. Of course Sherlock would rather spend a night discussing politics with Mycroft than admit it, so when John had asked him about it, he had offered a simple “It was agreeable,” and left it at that.  The truth of the matter is that Sherlock is afraid he is falling prey to that horrible condition Mycroft had warned him against, _sentiment_. It certainly felt that way earlier when John announced he was going out to meet with Katie? Kathy? Kaitlyn? Some random girl of the week he had pulled. Sherlock briefly wonders where he meets all these women, and why he keeps dragging himself out with these dull insipid creatures. And then he wonders why it bothers him as much as it does, and why he has an ache in the pit of his stomach. Why should it matter that John dates these women? Sherlock doesn’t know why it bothers him, he just knows that it does. Immensely.

And still, the flat is too quiet. Sherlock picks up his phone from the table next to him. He briefly considers sending a text to John, a surefire way to bring him back home, end yet another of his dates to rush home to his ‘git’ of a flatmate.

**We’re out of milk – SH**

**Theoretically, if I spilled mercury on the coffee table, how toxic would that be? – SH**

**Slight Bunsen Burner mishap. Come at once if convenient – SH**

With a sigh, he erases each one. Sherlock would love to call John home, have him sitting in his chair by the fire where he belongs, but each time he does, John gets increasingly stroppy. Then it’s days of grumbling and long showers and scowling until the next insipid human is found, and the process begins anew. Sherlock wonders why he can’t just be content here, in his presence. What is it these women offer that Sherlock cannot?

Sherlock curls his long legs under him in his chair and gives the matter his full attention. What is it? Almost at once the answer comes to him, something so trivial. A flash of something John said when Sherlock had spontaneously crashed his first date with Sarah, about trying to “get off.” Sex. Sex is what these women provide. Sherlock knows John is a sexual being; that much is obvious. He also knows that he takes every chance he can to proclaim himself “not gay”. And maybe he isn’t, but Sherlock can sometimes sense an attraction on John’s part. Glances that linger a bit too long depending on certain shirts Sherlock wears, the plum for example. Sometimes John’s eyes flitter to his mouth or neck, and Sherlock can sense a desire simmering under the surface of those blue orbs.

Then there are the casual touches, presses of fingers under teacups, brushes of shoulders in the kitchen. Sherlock is not left unaffected by these encounters either. Touch is another area John has brought change to his life. Before, Sherlock barely tolerated another person within three feet of him. Now, each incidental contact creates a tingle that travels down his spine, an electric pulse that he instinctively wants to chase.  

It’s no question that Sherlock is attracted to John. He was forced to admit that almost the moment they met. And with that attraction comes complications. It’s why Sherlock gave him the whole “married to my work” speech that first night at Angelo’s. Sherlock was afraid to start anything and ruin a promising beginning. No one else had tolerated Sherlock’s deductions before, usually they earned a “piss off” at best and a punch at worst. But John, John had listened and proclaimed him “amazing”, and “brilliant”, and Sherlock had felt something he hadn’t in a long time. Happy. But now, now Sherlock wonders if there could be something there. Could John ever act on his attraction? Would he?

Sighing, Sherlock unfolds himself and stretches, stiff from siting folded for so long. This needs further research, he thinks, walking towards his bedroom. Sherlock removes his clothes then lies on his bed, hands steepled under his chin, legs crossed at the ankles. Suddenly, the real Baker Street falls away as the walls of his mind palace arise. It’s an exact replica of the flat, except there are extra corridors and rooms housing each subject he wants to explore. Tonight he goes to his “John” room and opens the door.

_He is back in the lounge, fire blazing in the hearth, skull on the mantelpiece. The Cluedo board is still knifed in place on the wall. His chair sits vacant, the black leather cold and empty. John’s chair, turned to face his, is currently occupied. Sherlock walks over and sits down across from John, studying the man before him. On first glance, it’s always the same, deep blue eyes nestled beneath blond brows, pale pink lips curved into a slight smile, tanned cheeks and a strong jaw, all capped by shortish strands of golden-grey hair. It sounds ordinary, but underneath, Sherlock knows its not. Because those eyes can blaze midnight blue or glow cobalt, those lips can curve into a smile or pull into a sneer, and there is a strength written into the lines on that face that have been hard won. The firelight plays off John’s face, illuminating his features, and Sherlock sucks in a sharp gasp. He is utterly breathtaking. And Sherlock realizes he just may be in love with him._

_“Sherlock,” John says. Not real John. Mind palace John, Sherlock admonishes. Real John would never sound so welcoming._

_“John,” Sherlock starts, “I’m glad you’re home”_

_John smiles, “I am too.”_

_“I missed you”_

_“So you do actually notice when I’m not in the flat?” John laughs._

_“Of course, your existence is…purposeful”_

_“Purposeful? Well you sure know how to charm a bloke.”_

_“I mean…well,” Sherlock clears his throat, “I enjoy having you here. With me.”_

_“Hmm. I enjoy being here, Sherlock. With you.”_

_“Do you?” Sherlock asks, his pale green eyes narrowing._

_“Very much,” John replies, stretching his legs out in front of him to touch Sherlock’s. He rubs his socked foot gently on the inside of Sherlock’s ankle, and Sherlock shivers under the light touch._

_“Why, then?” Sherlock asks, leaning forward in his chair, “Why all the dates? All the women? Why are you constantly leaving m– I mean the flat?”_

_“Sherlock. You’re married to your work, remember? You told me that our first full night together. You’re not interested. What did you expect?”_

_Sherlock knows that this is only a manifestation of his own mind. He knows that this isn’t really John sitting here across from him, telling him if he hadn’t been brushed off he wouldn’t be out dating so much. He knows this, but right now he doesn’t care. Because he also knows that he will probably never have the real John this way. Never have him look at him softly through lidded eyes. Never have him rubbing his foot against his calf, inching slightly upwards with each pass. And for the first time in a very long time, Sherlock wants._

_“Yes. I do remember. And I am. But you’re a part of that work,” Sherlock says, looking at John through his lashes. “And what if I am? Interested, I mean?”_

_“Come here,” John whispers, shifting in his chair to sit upright._

_Sherlock drops out of his chair and crawls over to John’s, placing his hands on the armrests. John spreads his thighs wide on the cushion, and Sherlock crowds into the empty space, angling his head up. John places his hands over Sherlock’s where they rest on the chair and leans down, and for a brief moment they just rest there, their breath mingling in the closed space, their lips just millimeters from the other’s. Finally Sherlock closes the distance and presses his mouth to John’s. The first touch is chaste, a soft press of lips, but a thrill chases through Sherlock’s body at the contact. Sherlock immediately leans back in, using his tongue to lick at the seam of John’s lips.  John opens his mouth and Sherlock surges inside to taste him, whimpering at he sensation._

The sound jars him, and he opens his eyes, but instead of seeing John he is staring at his bedroom ceiling, the pale plaster a startling contrast from the scene in his head. It had felt so real. He can only imagine what the feel of John’s lips would be like, his taste. But luckily for him, he thinks with a smirk, he’s always had a brilliant imagination.

_Back in the sitting room, the kisses have turned from chaste affairs to something hungrier. Sherlock slants his mouth over John’s, his tongue licking inside as he grabs John’s upper thighs, the muscles rippling under his fingers.  John growls and threads his hands through Sherlock’s curls, bending his head to nip at his jaw and down his neck. Sherlock keens and grasps at John’s jumper, the sudden need to see him overwhelming. Sherlock rocks back on his heels, and reaches for John’s waistband as John shrugs off his jumper and vest. John rises up enough for Sherlock to pull off his jeans and pants, and now John sits before him gloriously naked. Sherlock has imagined what he would look like under those hideous jumpers many times, those broad shoulders unadorned, defined abs trailing down to muscled lean hips and strong thighs. Sherlock’s mouth literally waters at the sight (thought). Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips to the scar on John’s shoulder. Real John is always so careful to keep it covered, but here he can revere it the way he wants. He touches his tongue to the edges, tracing softly around the fringe, and hears John sigh above him._

_“Sherlock”_

_Sherlock looks up, and John dips his head, capturing his lips in a searing kiss that leaves him breathless. Sherlock lets his hands roam over muscled planes down John’s chest, over his belly, down to the thick patch of hair at the base of John’s cock. Sherlock wraps one hand lightly around the hard length, feeling the weight and heft in his palm. Oh, how he had imagined this part of John. Sherlock gives one firm stroke from root to tip, and John arches below him, groaning._

_“Wait” John says, placing his hand over Sherlock’s. “Please. I want to see you.” Sherlock realizes he’s still fully dressed, kneeling between John’s spread legs. Sherlock stands and strips out of his clothes until he too is naked. He is fully hard, his cock straining upward, and slightly self-conscious._

_“God Sherlock, you’re magnificent,” John says, leaning forward to grab Sherlock’s hand and pull him towards him until he stands in the vee of his spread thighs. John wraps his hands around Sherlock’s hips, kissing his navel. He trails his lips over one hipbone across to the other, and Sherlock throws back his head with a sigh.  John moves his hands further back, caressing Sherlock’s arse and pulls, until Sherlock falls into his lap, his thighs straddling John’s, knees pushing against the sides of the chair._

_“Will you do something for me?” John asks, kissing along Sherlock’s collarbone and up the side of his neck._

_“Anything, John. Anything you want, you can have it.”_

_“Touch yourself. I want to see you come.”_

_“Are you sure that’s what you want, John?” Sherlock is confused. Other partners have wanted his mouth, or his hands, but then this is his imagination, and this John can be different, he supposes._

_“Please. Show me. You’re so beautiful, Sherlock. Show me how to touch you.”_

_“Should I-“ Sherlock makes to get off John’s lap, but John’s hands tighten on his thighs, locking him in place._

_“No. Here. Right here.”_

In his bedroom, Sherlock runs his hands down his chest, one pausing to tug on his nipple, the other continuing down past sinewy muscles to his cock. He grips it lightly, stroking gently from the base to the tip the way he likes. The other hand roams from his chest to his head, threading his hand through inky curls. His fingers lightly scratch the scalp and pull. The hand on his cock tightens as he speeds his strokes, adding a twist at the tip.

“John,” he moans.

_“That’s it, Sherlock. You’re gorgeous,” John purrs between lavishing open-mouthed kisses on his neck._

_Sherlock is moving faster now, his hips are thrusting as he fucks into the tight circle of his fist. “Oh, oh…god,” he pants, “John…”_

_“Oh Christ, Sherlock, you’re so close. I can feel it. Yes, that’s it,” John is breathing hard, his thighs flexing under the undulation of Sherlock’s body. He reaches back and slips one finger into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, lightly rubbing at his hole and that does it, Sherlock is careening over the edge, his orgasm taking him hard, come spurting onto John’s chest and dribbling down his belly._

_When his breathing is finally under control, Sherlock leans down and captures John’s mouth. “Thank you,” he murmurs against his lips, “Now you.”_

_“God, yes.”_

The flat door slamming breaks Sherlock out of his reverie. It appears as if John’s date did not go well, Sherlock thinks. Glancing down his body, his release hot and sticky on his belly, he can’t help but think John would have had a much better time at home.

 

                                                                                          ++++++

The next few weeks fall into a bit of a pattern in 221B. John keeps finding new women to date; Sherlock meanwhile spends his evenings in his mind palace with his own version of John. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they relax by the fire, curled against one another, and sometimes…well. Sherlock has used his imagination to explore John’s body in a myriad of ways, and consequently, his own, pretending it was John’s hands and mouth bringing him to orgasm time and time again. As enjoyable as it has been, however, he can’t help wish it wasn’t just a fiction. That John, real John, actually wanted him that way. He aches to know the true feel of tanned skin under his fingertips, the texture of John’s hair as he runs his fingers through it. He wants to hear the sounds John will make as he runs his tongue along his length, desires to know the taste of him as his release fills his mouth. Sherlock also yearns to know how John’s hands would feel on his own heated flesh. How would John’s calloused digits, shorter than his own, coax him to fulfillment? How would they feel wrapped around his cock, or pushing inside, caressing the very core of him?

Even more frustrating are the tableaus Sherlock cannot stop himself from creating. The way the mind palace version of John looks at him like he is something to be treasured. The way he holds him after they have found their release, sated and pliant, wrapped up in each other’s warmth. And finally, the way that John whispers “I love you” softly against Sherlock’s lips as he claims him for his own. Sherlock knows that real John would never say these things to him, but Sherlock cannot help the scenarios dreamed up by his traitorous mind. He also knows he should stop with these fictions, because it is getting harder for him to separate what he feels for John from what is the reality outside of his mind. He finds himself staring a bit too long at the real John, lingering in his presence, hoping for an excuse to touch him. Several times he has had to stop himself from reaching out and stroking his fingertips across a blond brow, smoothing away frustration or confusion he found there. After a particularly rousing case, Sherlock was so keyed up, he had to dig his fingers into his palms to keep from grabbing John and snogging the man senseless right there in the cab. Luckily, his mind palace lover was all too happy to accept the affection.

More confusing for Sherlock is John himself. Real John, that is. He keeps going on dates of course, but no one sticks around for long. John also appears to be increasingly frustrated, more dates ending earlier. And not due to Sherlock’s ministrations this time, as he is rather busy with his own ‘dates’. Sherlock also isn’t sure if it is part of his confused imagination or reality, but John’s attraction to him seems to have grown. Sometimes he looks at Sherlock, and it is so similar to the way that his mind palace version watches him that it takes his breath away. But as quickly as it comes, it is shuttered away. Sherlock desperately wants to try, to make a move and see if his feelings are reciprocated, but fear always creeps in. He is too afraid to risk John’s rejection. It is easier to stay in the land of fantasy.

_John is sitting in his chair as usual as Sherlock enters the lounge. The fire is already lit throwing shadows on John’s nude torso. He is clad only in his red briefs, lazily palming himself through the cotton. When he sees Sherlock he smirks and shifts his hips, giving Sherlock a better view._

_“Hello, gorgeous.”_

_“John,” Sherlock breathes. John is beautiful like this, lit by the fire, lazy grin lighting up his face. Sherlock begins to remove his shirt, slowly pushing the buttons through their holes, before slipping it off his shoulders and starting on his trousers. Soon he is standing before John clad only in his silk pants. John’s eyes have gone black and hungry as Sherlock strips. He gets up from his chair and stalks across the room to stand in front of Sherlock._

_John lets his eyes rove over Sherlock’s body, his hands coming round to trail down Sherlock’s back and rest on his slim hips._

_“John?”_

_“God, Sherlock. You’re bloody perfect,” John says, lifting his head to capture Sherlock’s mouth. He nips Sherlock’s lower lip and delves inside. Sherlock whimpers and opens his mouth, eagerly sucking on John’s tongue. With a groan, John breaks off, trailing his lips up Sherlock’s jaw, drawing his earlobe into his mouth. “Tell me,” he says, “what do you want tonight?”_

_Sherlock knows what he wants, it’s not something they’ve done before, even Sherlock’s brilliant mind has its limits. Try as he might, he can’t replicate the feel of John’s hard length filling him, consuming him. But not all is lost. He grabs John’s face and turns him to rest their foreheads together. “I want to fuck you. I want you to ride my cock until you come on me.”_

_“Jesus, Sherlock,” John growls, devouring Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue pressing inside. He reaches behind to grab Sherlock’s arse and press their bodies flush. The move makes Sherlock aware of how much John appreciates that suggestion. “Your bed. Now.”_

_Sherlock shakes his head, that’s mixing things too much and he’s having enough trouble as it is. “Couch. Come here.”_

_He strips his pants off and sits on the sofa, thighs splayed wide. John follows, pausing to remove his briefs, then sits on Sherlock’s lap, straddling his thighs. He angles his hips so their erections press together, and Sherlock moans at the contact. Sherlock pulls the lube from behind the cushion and quickly slicks both hands. One hand he wraps around both of their cocks, while he moves his other hand back, pressing between John’s buttocks, one finger circling his entrance. John cants his hips, and Sherlock’s finger presses in to the knuckle._

_“Oh god,” John pants, rolling his hips, alternatively moving between Sherlock’s finger and his fist. “More.”_

_Sherlock tightens his fist on them both, stroking harder, as he adds a second finger. His breath is coming shallower, watching John on top of him like this. “Oh God, John, yes, that’s it,” he keens, lifting his own hips to rub his length against John’s._

“Sherlock,” _John says. It sounds funny to Sherlock’s ears. Strangled, and breathy, and entirely too far away from the man in his arms. He looks up, but John is starting to fade._

His bedroom comes into focus. Sherlock is laying face down on the bed, his right hand, slick with lube, is curled around his cock, his left is holding the pillow in place to give greater purchase to rut against. A sudden movement catches his eye, and he turns his head sharply to meet John’s eyes. But not mind palace John. Real John.

John is leaning in the doorway, his jacket still on, taking in the scene before him. Sherlock removes his hand and lowers his head to the pillow, breathing hard. He is stark naked and sweating, and there is no way he can talk himself out of this one. Well, perhaps. Depends on how long John has been standing there.

“How long have you been there?” Sherlock asks.

“I – I heard my name. I thought – well. I thought you needed something so I came –“ John winces at the unintentional pun. Sherlock smirks. Leave it to John to make a joke, he thinks.  “I’m sorry, Sherlock, excuse me.”

He doesn’t leave immediately. It’s almost as if his feet are frozen to the floor. John’s is trying to maintain eye contact, but his eyes drop to trace the outline of Sherlock’s naked body, pausing on his arse in particular. When they do travel back up, Sherlock lets out a breath at what he sees. There is a heat simmering there, the usual blue almost black, eclipsed by the pupil. He also notices that John is breathing harder than normal, and yes, there it is, his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Sherlock realizes that this is the moment that could change everything. He could let John walk out of this room, and they could both go back to the status quo. Or he could take his chance and see if maybe, just maybe, he could have all that he imagined and more. John starts to turn away, and Sherlock makes his choice.

“Stop!” Sherlock says, rolling off the bed. In one fluid motion he is in front of John, crowding into his space. John tips his head up to look at Sherlock.

“Sherlock. What are you doing?” he asks. If he was trying for forceful, he misses by a mile, Sherlock thinks.

Sherlock crowds him back towards the doorway, closing the door, and pinning John to it with his stare. He places one hand on either side of John’s head and leans in until he is mere inches from his face. He doesn’t miss the shiver that goes down John’s back at this.  Sherlock’s voice drops an octave, it’s low and lethal as he spells out his plan.

“The way I see it, John, we have two options. One, you walk out of this room, we never talk about this again, and we both go back to the way things were.”

“And tw- two?” John breathes.

Sherlock smirks, “Two, you stay, and see how loud you can make me shout your name.”

“God, yes,” John grates, and surges forward to claim Sherlock’s mouth.

If Sherlock thought he was prepared for the feel of John’s lips against his he was absolutely wrong. This is not the soft kiss of his imaginary lover. John’s mouth is hot and hard, his tongue tangling with Sherlock’s. John pulls Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites, and Sherlock gasps, dropping his arms to thread his fingers through John’s hair. This too is different than imagined, softer, and Sherlock is overwhelmed by the sensation of finally having John, real John, under his fingertips.  Sherlock breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and runs his tongue along John’s jaw, cataloguing the tastes.

John moans, and the sound sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. He wants to hear all the sounds John can make. Sherlock grabs John’s jacket and pushes it off his shoulders as John starts on his shirt. Together, they soon divest John of his clothes until he is as gloriously naked as his mind palace counterpart. Sherlock steps out of reach and takes a minute just to look at the man before him, filing away all the details that he had miscalculated. John’s scar is one such area. Sherlock leans forward and traces the ridges, his fingers swirling around the starburst shape. He glances up and catches John’s eye, before leaning forward and tracing his tongue around the center, slowly trailing outward. John sucks in a breath, his hands grabbing at Sherlock’s head and threading fingers into his hair. John pulls his head up, capturing his mouth again. This kiss is more languid, but no less heated, Sherlock’s tongue licking inside John’s mouth. Sherlock is fascinated to finally learn John’s taste, it is tea and curry, milk and warmth, and Sherlock thinks it tastes like home.

“John,” he breathes.

“Mm,” John purrs, breaking the kiss to suck hard on the side of Sherlock’s neck. “That wasn’t very loud.”

Sherlock groans, his hands grabbing at John’s back, as he pulls their bodies together. They now are flush from knees to chests, and Sherlock is drowning in sensation. John bites down on the area where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder, and Sherlock cries out, shifting his weight to press one leg between John’s thighs, desperate for some friction on his aching erection. The shift makes Sherlock aware that John is in much the same condition, his hard length pressing into Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock turns and maneuvers John so that he is lying back on the bed, and crawls over him, straddling his hips. John looks up at Sherlock though hooded eyes, running his hands along Sherlock’s inner thighs, fingertips inching closer to his groin with each pass. Sherlock leans down and presses kisses along John’s collarbone, down his chest, twirling his tongue around one nipple. John arches below him, gripping his upper thighs hard. Sherlock smiles, and tongues his way across this chest, rubbing his nose in the sparse hairs there, until he reaches the other nipple. He closes his lips around it and sucks.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moans.

Sherlock travels lower, pausing to press kisses to John’s navel, and then one and the other hip, before reaching his prize. He spreads himself on his stomach between John’s thighs, and buries his nose in the thick thatch of hair at the base of John’s cock, taking a moment to just breathe him in. This is where his brain was woefully inadequate, and he wants to remember every ounce of the man below him. Sherlock licks up the underside of John’s cock, twirling his tongue around the tip before closing his lips around the head and sucking lightly. John’s hands fly to Sherlock’s head, tangling in his hair, and he exhales a shaky groan. Sherlock looks at John through his lashes as he takes his cock in further, flattening his tongue on the underside, and hollowing his cheeks to add a bit of suction.

“Fuck, Sherlock, Fuck! Your mouth, my god, you’re gorgeous,” John cries, his eyes like hot coals on Sherlock’s.

The taste of John is intoxicating, all liquid heat and musk. It’s more than he could have possibly dreamed, and the experience of having John this way makes Sherlock moan, his lips stretching wider around John’s cock. He presses down further, taking John in until he hits the back of his throat and swallows. He pulls back a little and then dives back down, bobbing between John’s legs, as he ruts his own erection against the bed. John is panting, his head thrown back, and Sherlock is in heaven. John is getting close, and Sherlock increases his rhythm, adding a swirl with his tongue at the tip, when suddenly John is pulling at Sherlock’s hair.

“Sherlock, st- stop, please.”

Sherlock pulls off, raising a hand to wipe the saliva off his chin. “Not good?”

“No. My god, are you kidding? Too good. You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of that mouth,” John gasps, pulling Sherlock by his shoulder. Sherlock complies, climbing up John’s body and lying on top of him, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Then what –“

“I was supposed to make you yell my name,” John says with a grin. “If you kept going, that wasn’t going to happen.”

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pushes up from the bed with his bent leg, and in one fell swoop, their positions are reversed. Sherlock arches an eyebrow up at John. “Impressive.”

John laughs, “Oh Sherlock. You haven’t seen impressive yet.”

John bends his head and presses a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips before moving lower to lick at Sherlock’s neck, lightly biting along the collarbone and trailing upward to lave his tongue around Sherlock’s earlobe. He closes his lips around the spot behind his ear and sucks hard, and Sherlock arches his back, seeking more, his hands reaching up to grasp at John’s back.

“John.”

“Hmm,” John sighs, sucking a bruise on Sherlock’s pale skin. “You’re so beautiful, Sherlock. I want to mark that gorgeous skin of yours. Would you like that? Want me to make you mine?”

Sherlock can only nod, his senses on fire, inflamed by John’s talented mouth. Another area his mind was woefully unprepared to consider. John bites harder, his tongue coming out to swirl around the purpling skin, and Sherlock keens, his cock twitching painfully.

“God, John!”

Sherlock shifts his body slightly, and presses his erection against John’s muscled thigh, thrusting slightly, the need for friction overwhelming. John shifts, and Sherlock lets out a low growl as he feels John’s length slide next to his. He reaches back and grabs John’s arse, rolling his hips to increase the pressure, desperate for more.

“Oh that’s perfect,” John breathes, flicking his hips, “You feel incredible”

John moves lower to kiss down Sherlock’s torso. He stops to swirl his tongue in his belly button, and Sherlock is quivering, his senses being taken offline completely by John’s skilled mouth. John trails his lips over one sharp hipbone, tongue darting out to taste Sherlock’s skin before slowly making his way to the other hip, repeating the process. Sherlock is writhing on the bed, his hands clenching the sheets, head thrown back. He is trying not to beg, trying to retain the last shred of his control, but he desperately needs to know the feeling of John’s mouth on his aching cock. He yearns for that hot, wet slickness sucking him down. But at the same time, he knows he won’t last much longer; John is more wonderful than he ever could have imagined, and now that he has him here, in his bed, he never wants this night to end.

As if reading his mind, John dips his head lower, licking a stripe up the underside of Sherlock’s hard length, his tongue swirling around the tip, licking away the bead of pre-come already gathering there.

“John, oh, Jo-“ Sherlock pants, his hands settling in John’s hair, bucking his hips.

John lays an arm across Sherlock’s hips to keep him steady and sinks his lips back down on Sherlock’s length, hollowing his cheeks and sucking lightly. He wraps one hand around the base, bobbing his head faster, and moves the other hand back further to press at Sherlock’s perineum. Sherlock lets out a whine and raises his hips slightly, inviting John to move further. John takes the hint, letting his fingers trace between Sherlock’s buttocks and rub gently at his hole.

“Yes, John, please,” Sherlock exhales, wriggling his hips to gain more of John’s touch. He is actively begging now, eager to feel John’s touch on the most intimate spot of his body.

John pulls off Sherlock’s cock with one last long lick to the glans, “Do you have-“ he begins.

Sherlock reaches over under his pillow, finds the tube he is looking for and tosses it at John. John quickly slicks up to fingers and presses back against Sherlock’s entrance, lightly circling before pressing his middle finger inside. Sherlock arches up, bending both knees and spreading his thighs wide. “More,” he sobs.

John quickly complies, adding a second finger beside the first, instituting a wicked 180-degree twist of his wrist on the withdrawal that leaves Sherlock shaking as each pass lightly brushes his prostate. John’s right hand is wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s cock, stroking in time with each thrust of his fingers.

“Look at you. Fuck, Sherlock,” John grates, bending down to place an open mouth kiss to Sherlock’s inner thigh.

Sherlock had done this himself, of course, all those nights alone with only his mind to keep him company, but now with John here, really here, he realizes just how inadequate those fictions had been. John skilled beyond his wildest fantasies, and Sherlock is slowly unraveling under his touch. It’s amazing and phenomenal, but not quite enough, and suddenly he knows what he wants.

“J- John, please. I need…”

“What do you need, beautiful? Anything.”

Sherlock snaps his head up, piercing John with his stare. “You. I need to feel you. I- Fuck me, John, please.”

“Christ,” John growls, his eyes hot. He pulls his fingers out of Sherlock’s body, and crawls up, capturing Sherlock’s mouth in a bruising kiss. “Are you sure?” he whispers against Sherlock’s lips.

“John. I’ve never been more sure. Please.” Sherlock punctuates his statement with a roll of his hips, drawing John’s earlobe into his mouth and sucking hard.

John sits up and reaches for the lube again, quickly slicking himself up. Sherlock bends his knees up further as John slowly begins to push in.

“John,” Sherlock moans, his hands grasping at John’s back as he is slowly being filled. He wants badly to memorize every stretch, every inch, but he finds he is entirely incapable of thought, the only word rushing through his mind is ‘John’.

“Christ, Sherlock, you feel incredible,” John groans, pressing in farther until finally he is fully seated, his balls resting against Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock grabs hard at John’s hips, needing to keep him immobile for just a moment, needing time to adjust to the incredible feeling of John, his John, joined to him so intimately. Brilliant as he is, his mind never could have conjured this, the feeling of being filled, being claimed. For the first time in his life he feels cherished. It’s a heady feeling, and Sherlock wants to clear entire rooms in his mind palace just to dedicate to this single moment in time. John presses a sloppy kiss to his throat, and Sherlock feels the pressure tighten in his belly and course through his body. He needs more, now.

“Move,” he whines, rolling his hips.

John pulls out and pushes back in slowly, flicking his hips. He reaches down to take Sherlock’s left leg and curl it over his shoulder and Sherlock cries out at the change in angle as John is now brushing his prostate with each stroke.

“John, harder!” He keens, reaching between their bodies to take himself in hand, stroking in time with John’s thrusts. John grabs Sherlock’s hips and drives harder, and Sherlock can feel his orgasm building, careening through him like a tsunami. He wants to let go, wants to give in to the extraordinary feeling surging through his body, but at the same time, he wants to stay suspended in this moment forever.

“I’m close, oh god…John!” Sherlock yells as his orgasm takes him, arching his back and instinctively tightening around John where they are connected, spilling his release between their bellies.

“Fuck, that’s gorgeous,” John purrs, bending down to capture Sherlock’s lips in a wet, messy kiss. “That was the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen,” he breathes.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s back, squeezing hard. “Now you,” He pants, “Please John, come in me, I need to feel you, please.”

“Christ,” John moans, gripping Sherlock’s hips hard and pounding into his body again and again. Sherlock can tell John is getting close, his thrusts becoming increasingly erratic. Sherlock wants to see John lose control and tip over the edge; he needs to feel John’s release filling him, claiming him completely. Sherlock reaches down and grabs two handfuls of John’s luscious arse, sloppily licking at his collarbone, biting at the skin.

“Yes, John, Yes,” He growls, his voice gone low and gravely. “Come for me, now.”

“Oh, Fuck, Yes! Sherlock!” John shouts, and with one final thrust spills his release deep inside Sherlock’s body. Breathing hard, he collapses on top of Sherlock, his cock twitching where they are still connected.

“John, look at me,” Sherlock breathes.

John lifts up enough to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock sucks in a breath at what he sees. John is magnificent like this. He is gloriously flushed, glistening with sweat, and God, his eyes. His eyes are full of a soft tenderness, and Sherlock has to bite his lip to keep from blurting out how much in love with this man he is. He has no idea what is going to happen now, but he doesn’t ever want to let this go. He supposes he could go back to his fictions, now that he has more knowledge of the true feel of John, but he finds that now he’s had a taste of the real thing, replacements just won’t cut it. Sherlock wonders how it’s possible to feel both incandescently happy and despairingly sad at the same time, and his eyes suddenly glaze with tears.

John must see something, because he lets out a sharp gasp, his hands moving to cradle Sherlock’s face. John presses a tender kiss to Sherlock’s lips before pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock. If you think for one minute that I am going to let you go now that I have you, you’re insane. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Sherlock is genuinely surprised. “You have?”

“For a genius, you can be pretty thick.”

“Hmm. Well, I admit I didn’t have all the data.”

John laughs, pulling out and shifting on his side so he’s facing Sherlock. “And now you do?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock says. He is overjoyed to learn the depth of John’s desire for him. He thought he’d be forever resigned to the realm of fantasy, never having what he truly desired. Sherlock realizes he’s never felt more alive than he does at this moment in John’s arms.

“By the way,” John says, running his fingers up Sherlock’s hip, “I think I did rather well with your challenge. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Hudson heard you. She’ll probably be up with congratulatory scones in the morning.”

“You were admirable,” Sherlock smirks.

“Git,” John chuckles, slapping Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock can’t hold it in anymore. The lines between reality and fantasy are blurred so completely, he needs John to know.

“John. I- well. I…that is, I-“

John stops him with a soft kiss, his tongue sweeping lazily inside Sherlock’s mouth. “Shh. I love you, too.”

Sherlock smiles, his eyes again filling with tears. He reaches up and takes John’s face in his hands. “John. My John. You are everything to me.” John’s smile is resplendent; he leans down and slides his lips across Sherlock’s once, twice.

“Christ, I need a shower,” John says, rolling off the bed and heading to the bathroom. Sherlock watches him go, admiring the view of his backside as he does. He thinks about all that has changed this evening, how the indulgence of his lonely mind had led to something so wonderful. He never would have believed it, never would have thought John, real John, would want him in any way, but he had never been more happy to be wrong.

“Joining me, love?” John yells from the bathroom.

Sherlock smiles, climbing off the bed to join his no-longer-imaginary lover. He pauses to close the door on the “John” room in his mind palace. He’s sure to visit it again from time to time, but Sherlock thinks he’d like to stay in the here-and-now for a while. So far, reality truly is better than any fiction he could have imagined.

 

 


End file.
